Happy Halloween (Tara Taylor Quinn)

When I was a kid I thought Halloween was magical. I can remember sitting in school, thinking through the various accouterments of my costume, mentally dressing in every single piece, visualizing the final result over and over. I was a bit of a weird kid, not out just to look fabulous, to look whatever part I'd chosen to play, but to be comfortable. I chose costumes that would allow me to wear warm and cozy clothes underneath, or as part of the get up. I chose to be something for those hours that would allow shoes that would not make my feet sore - shoes that could run fast through yards. I also chose my character based on how much make up I could wear. I loved make up and was only allowed to wear it on Halloween.

(Heck, I can remember being fifteen or so, long after my dress up days, and still not being allowed to wear make up. I did. But I was scolded for doing so. One day I had on this bright blue eye shadow. I thought I was gorgeous. All the girls in high school were wearing it. It made me feel pretty. My father wanted to know why I had that crap on my eyes. I told him. Let's just say that he didn't agree with my assessment of my looks. Today, looking back, I must say I probably have to agree with him. Why did we ever think bright blue glittery eye shadow was attractive?)

Once again, I digressed. Back to the hallowed day. My best costume of all time - in my humble opinion - was when I decided to be an old lady. (In my mind that didn't include wrinkles.) I was about eight or ten at the time. I got to wear all the make up I wanted - and it didn't have to be face paint. Ladies didn't wear paint! They wore make up. Eye shadow and eye liner and mascara, and powder and blush and best of all - lipstick! Bright red shiny lipstick. I got to wear beads - I thought they were real pearls, but of course, my mother donated some of her old costume jewelry. But the best part of all - for both the costume AND my ulterior motive of staying warm enough to be out as long as my brothers were - was the fur coat. I can't imagine, now, what my mother was thinking letting me out of the house with that thing, but I can still remember loving every second of wearing it. It wasn't real fur, but a very expensive imitation mink. And it was a stole more than a coat. It had been my grandmother's. And hung down past my knees. I felt rich. Beautiful. Warm. I felt sorry for every other kid out trick or treating that night because none of them had a costume as stunning as mine. If I had my pictures out of storage I'd scan a couple from that Halloween and post them. I'm telling you, I was exquisite.

And then there were the days when my daughter was little. Her costume consumed my days and nights before Halloween. Not because she seemed to care a whole lot. She was a performer. A dancer. Costumes and make up were a hassle to her. And it wasn't about the costume. I wanted her warm and comfortable - of course - but what I really wanted was to re-create for her, the magic I'd felt as a kid, dressing up, being whoever I wanted to be, and then getting loads and loads and loads of candy, so much that when you poured it all out, it made a huge pile on the carpet. More candy than I could eat in a year. (I wasn't much of a candy eater!)

One year I made her a witches costume. From scratch. I bought the pattern and fabric, and I sewed a professional quality costume. She didn't seem all that impressed. The hat bugged her head - she had hair down to her hips and it didn't all work together well. The skirt prevented her from running as freely as she wanted to. Then there was the year my mom made her a clown costume - again professional quality from scratch. She loved the costume, but the red paint I put on her nose itched all night. She went as a football player one year. The black stuff I put under her eyes ran and itched.

And over the years, there were fewer and fewer kids out. And more and more blackened houses. Where you used to hear wives tales about tainted candy and apples with razor blades in them, real instances started to be reported on the news. Poisoned candy. Predators waiting to do more than scare unchaperoned children. Malls started offering trick or treating alternatives, having candy at the entrance to stores so parents could bring their kids to a safe place. Churches started to host 'trunk or treats', with parishioners lining their cars in church parking lots, with candy in the trunks. Kids got candy. But it wasn't the same. It never had been about the candy, as far as I was concerned.

And I grew up. Our world isn't a playground. The corpses and ghosts that we honor on Halloween are depictions of death. There's darkness - not just on trick or treat night - but every night.

And there can be light. Dressing up isn't a bad thing. It allows our children - and us, if we choose to allow ourselves to be kid like now and then - to dream - to imagine we can be whoever we want to be. And the more we imagine that, the closer we come to becoming everything we want to be. For me, Halloween made the impossible, possible. It opened the door to being more than I was on any ordinary day. It let me see the possibilities.

And gave me lots of candy to bribe my brothers with!

So today, can you remember your best costume? The person you most wanted to be?

Happy Halloween everyone! Please, please, please lets all be aware and help keep the kids of our world safe tonight!

There is a Free Lunch! (Suzanne Forster)

Go figure. During the 2007 MLB World Series, Taco Bell promised a free taco to anyone and everyone who lives in the U.S. of A, but only IF a base was stolen during the series. A base was stolen, and according to their web site, Taco Bell intends to make good on their promise. You can actually get your free taco from a participating Taco Bell between 2 and 5 pm today, Tuesday, October 30th. You’ll find the link to their web site at the bottom of this blog. Be sure and check it out!

With that bit of good news and a quick update on the fires, I’m out of here for this week. After having lost several days to the upheaval here in southern California, I’m just getting back to writing and still facing a deadline that feels as if it’s approaching me at the speed of a comet. Fortunately, the wildfires are mostly contained, the air is beginning to clear in many areas, the heat has come down from the three-digit range, and we’re doing far better here than we were last week at this time.

Before I sign off, I want to pay tribute to our local fire fighters and the fire-fighting teams sent from all over the country to support them. I have never seen such extraordinary heroism as exhibited by the men and women battling the fires. They risked their lives to evacuate people safely and save their homes, worked around the clock for days with no sleep and whatever food they could eat on the run, and they’re still at it, trying to contain every last blaze. It’s hard to put that kind of dedication and self-sacrifice into words, and yet it’s all in a day’s work for these amazing folks. For me they have come to symbolize so much of what has always been good about this country. I just wish I could offer them something more than these inadequate words of praise, and my humble but very sincere thanks.

I also want to thank all of you for your prayers and good thoughts. The outpouring of love and concern from all over the world has done much to bolster the resolve of everyone here in socal. If any good has come of this, it’s been witnessing the miracle of people pulling together and realizing that we have all been tested, and we are much stronger than we knew.

Here’s the link I promised: http://mlb.mlb.com/mlb/fan_forum/tacobell/

Enjoy your tacos!

Suz

Sunday Cat Blogging (Lymond de Sevigny)

It's almost Halloween. Bring me treats.





Peel me a mouse.







And thereby hangs a tale.

The Unsinkable Mollie Brown. . . Maybe (Patricia Potter)

This has been a strange, unproductive week that started with muscle spasms in my neck last Thursday.

It was as if lightning hit my shoulder, ran up my neck and exploded in my jaw. Never felt anything like it before.

Called my brother, a retired doctor, as I usually do. I’ve resisted the idea of getting a doctor of my own for years. I’ve foregone examinations I know I should have. I’ve depended on the occasional blood pressure machine in a drug store and a call to my brother or doctor nephew-in-law during a case of the flu.

This time, he prescribed an over the counter muscle relaxer, but the pain got worse -- much, much worse -- and I ended up in the emergency room. Filled with muscle relaxers and pain killers I survived the next few days in la la land.

And I made, for me, a stupendous decision. I would get a doctor of my own and do the whole examination bit. No more of this piecemeal and emergency room business.

Maggie’s post about taxes yesterday struck a nerve, because it's part of a pattern for me. I empathized over her tax bill, because I, too, wait until the very last minute (October 15th) to do my taxes and am usually startled that I owe money. I’ve already paid them much more than they deserve.

But then I've always taken procrastination seriously. More as an art form, to be completely honest.

And until now, I took it as seriously medically as I do financially. If I ignore the tax man or illness, maybe they will go away.

Problem is, they don’t.

So after running to the emergency room last Friday, I decided it was finally time to get a “doctor of my own,” and suffer through the many tests of a complete examination I’ve haven’t had in fifty years.

I discovered exactly why I’ve avoided them with such expertise.

Don’t like being poked and pricked and peered at. Never have. Never will. Spent a whole afternoon doing that, and have to spend another Tuesday and maybe more after that.

It’s not that I’ve been spared doctors. They’ve always been there when catastrophe fell, and I had no choice. There’s been five such occasions: a burst appendix; an auto accident when I did my best to destroy a perfectly good left leg. And finally a ruptured colon (not good), an operation to fix and another to refix. But in between those occurrences I survived quite well without regular visits to a doctor. Took great pride in the fact.

I was healthy and independent and considered myself the heiress of the unsinkable Molly Brown.

Going to a doctor seemed to be admitting failure in the above, so I kept putting it off.

But now I’m admitting failure. I may not be as unsinkable as I thought.
Muscle spasms brought me to my knees, but I wasn’t sure that was what it was at the time. Panic.

So now I’ve mentally adjusted myself to the fact that it might be wise to
see what’s going on inside my body and take precautions for the future.

It’s time, but I hate that fact.

The Fire This Time (LynnK)

Sunrise over San Diego, captured by Kevin Hopkins from his terrace a couple days ago.

Morning and evening, the sun has been blood-red all week. The ash, Kevin said, is falling so fast it looks like a snow storm.

You’ve probably seen the reports on the news, hellish flames leapfrogging the hills and skittering along the valleys. Firefighters and police evacuating half a million people. Water-dropping aircraft often grounded by the Santa Ana winds.

Photo by Robert Conaway

Like many others, you may have asked yourself why people settle in an area at such risk of wildfires. Beats me, except that if everyone in the world settled in the places secure from natural disasters, we’d be stacked up like cordwood.

I’ve been ensconced in the safest corner of San Diego country (unless there’s a tsunami, in which case look for my corpse several miles inland). Early on I helped gather and tote donations to Qualcomm Stadium, but within a short time, volunteers were so many that we were tripping over one another. So I holed up out of the way, in large part because the polluted air was playing havoc with me. Tuesday I walked a few blocks to the grocery, feeling fine, but walking back, I had to stop three times and sit on the curb with my head down for several minutes. I forget I lost a lot of lung capacity a few years ago from pulmonary embolisms, and that may have been a factor.

Anyhow, being housebound with closed windows and a cat, I’ve been watching the 24/7 local news reports about the fire. They did a terrific job, the people in the studio and those on the ground. The national media, not so much.

It’s been funny how the big-wigs all seemed to zero in on the same idiotic (and fairly irrelevant) stories. Most did on-site commentaries from the largest evacuation site, Qualcomm, focusing on the relative “luxury” of the accommodations. Like, oh, sleeping in your car in the parking lot, if you want to stay near your pets. They weren’t allowed in the stadium. Those who camped inside were allotted cots or air mattresses(!) and blankets (!) and pillows (!!). Plenty of food and water.

But no roof over their heads. Daytime temps were in the 90's, hotter when reflected off the pavement and concrete surfaces. At night, the temperature dropped considerably. The air was thick with smoke and burned chemicals. There were howling infants. Bored and sometimes rowdy kids. Uncertainty and discomfort. The fear of losing everything in the fire.

So what did the big shots tell America? Why, about the gourmet food laid out for the evacuees by local restaurants. Musicians. Magicians. Massages. Acupuncture. Hey, it’s just like going to a Vegas spa! Those spoiled, effete So-Cal snobs.

Those lazy, looking-for-a-cheap-story big-time anchor persons, say I. Yes, all those things and more were provided . . . by volunteers who wanted to do something to help. Some have goods to provide, and some have money. Others have talents and skills, which they came to share with their fellow San Diegans. They coordinated activities for the kids. Sports, coloring, games, face-painting, entertainments. The massages and acupuncture and manicures were gifts to stressed adults, a few minutes of something special from those who had only their skills to offer.

And that’s the real story. The people of this city and this county came together in marvelous ways. They gave their time, their talents, and their labor. They opened their homes, their vehicles, their wallets, and their hearts. They continue to do so, as the evacuees trickle back to their houses . . . or the places they once stood. Fund-raising for the Red Cross and other relief organizations just got underway, and the money is flowing in. Sometimes rushing in, with checks for $50,000 or $100,000 from businesses. But more often the amounts are small and clearly a sacrifice for the givers. We all want to do our bit.

Even the politicians preening at the microphones, some of them with shirt-sleeves rolled up in hardworking-guy-style, seem to be making an effort to be of use. These are, however, many of the same politicians who refused–after the deadly fires of 2003–to fix the broken Fire Department and prepare it for the future.

During the Cedar fires, in which 22 people were killed, the Fire Department didn’t even have enough batteries to power their portable radios. They were understaffed, ill-equipped, and incredibly brave.

Photo by Sean M. Haffey, San Diego Union-Tribune

By mid-2006, with the politicians still refusing to appropriate funds for needed improvements, the Fire Chief resigned in protest. So much for “an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.”

Investment ahead of disaster is provably cheaper than dealing with the aftermath. Because San Diego did pony up money for a “Reverse 911" system, lives were saved lives during the frantic evacuations this week. It should be a lesson for the future. I doubt it will be.

Today, all the news coverage focused on the President’s tour of the disaster area, accompanied by a coterie of supporters. I have mixed feelings about shows of support and consolation, common to all presidents, which may be sincere but which also disrupt what needs to be done. In any case, the teevee cameras followed the politicians tromping through the ashes of the Rancho Bernardo area and lingered on the President as he embraced a local couple in the ruins of their home.

But. Those cameras never showed the long line of cars backed up on the highway because the road leading into Rancho Bernardo was closed off as part of the security always surrounding a president. In those cars were residents permitted to visit their homes for the first time since evacuation, and only for a few minutes to see the damage and retrieve essential medications and papers. There’s still no power or water there.

Anyway, because of the President’s extended photo-op, these victims of the fire ended up sitting in polluted air and 90-degree temperatures for two or three hours. One fed-up driver was taking her 87-year-old mother, who had just recovered from pneumonia, to pick up medication. They had no masks, but had to sit in the car with the windows rolled down because they dared not run the air conditioner. Not with only a quarter-tank of gas left.

Sorry for rambling. It’s been a tough week for everyone here, even though the community spirit has lifted our hearts. But now, in the middle of the night, my thoughts insist on turning to the lonely and forgotten. John Gibbins of the San Diego Union-Tribune caught this picture of a ghostly bobcat, fur singed and paws burnt, making his way through the ashy woodlands.


Sometimes we can’t help, but we can always care.

Dancing in the Rain

Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass.
Life is learning to dance in the rain!

I just love that quote. I saw it in the signature line of a friend's email recently, and I've adopted it for my own personal motto. I got a taste of what it really means last week, when I finally got my taxes done and found out I owe a fortune to the IRS. I don't have it. I trust that I'll get it, but it's such a big chunk I'm not sure what I'm supposed to live on while I'm paying it off.

Now this is the first really not so great thing that's happened to me in a while. (Well, aside from that minor snafu when I pulled a butt muscle, but that was merely a blip.) Life's been so so very good to me lately. I've been happy, healthy, productive, strong, upbeat, busy, and having fun every day in one way or another. In fact, I've been so happy, that the news from my accountant didn't cause much of a ripple. Three months ago, I'd have probably been devastated. I'd have burst into tears, moaned, complained, worried. I'd have gone into a funk for at least a few weeks, as I stressed and worried how to pay it off, what to do, how to deal, why it's so unfair, and all the usual whiny-ass nonsense. In fact, my accountant was surprised by my lack of a reaction and asked me why I wasn't weeping on his desk. And that made me search my mind and my heart, as I wondered too. But the answer was pretty easy.

It is what it is, I told him. I can cry and complain, or I can shrug and continue being happy. It's not going to change what I owe. And I really prefer being happy. Besides, in a positive frame of mind, one attracts more positive things, and negativity only brings on more negativity, so if I really want to pay this off, staying positive is going to be far more beneficial in the long run.

Okay, I hear you naysayers out there grumbling. If you're so damn positive and upbeat and sickeningly Sunnybrook Farmish, then how did you "attract" this kind of debt in the first place, smarty-pants? Well, I'll tell you how. I've been happy, yeah, but we all have stuff we can work on, and one of mine has been my attitude about money. Always has been. I don't like it. I enjoy having it, but I resent it at the same time. I never feel wealthy, I feel poor and as if the wealthy me is just a facade. I also feel that I get taken advantage of and used for money quite often, and that eats away at me, which is just silly. No one can use you or take advantage if you don't let them, right? So anyway, my attitude about money has been bad, my approach to managing finances is to ignore them completely, and my desire, the one I've been putting out to the Universe, is to get better about these things.

So of course, the manifestation I created for myself was built out of those things. The negative attitude about money brought me a big fat negative money issue, and my desire to get better at managing it brought me a situation in which I have no other choice but to get better at managing it. See how that works?

It makes perfect sense to me. Dealing with this issue is going to make me feel empowered about money matters. Facing it in the first place, is going to make me ensure that I don't have to face it again by learning to manage things in a more practical way. Everything about my financial life is improving because of this situation, and when I'm on the other side of it, I'll be in a far better place.

So yeah, it's a tiny bit of a storm. Just like the other day, when my daughter Stacie and I wanted to go for a nice long walk, but it was raining. At first, we waited for the storm to pass. It didn't, but it did let up a bit, so we decided to risk it. We walked about two and a half miles, then turned to come back, and that's when it started to sprinkle. And then it sprinkled more, and then it opened up and poured. And we started to laugh as we got soaked through and through. We kept on walking, and we jumped into the big puddles and splashed water all over each other, like little kids. We opened our arms and spun in circles and let the rain fall on our faces. And we had a great time. It sure was better than it would have been to sit around the house moping over the storm and waiting for it to pass.

Just because a storm comes along, that's no reason to stop having fun!

I know though that some storms are a lot worse than others. We can't control the conditions around us. Only the way we react to them. But that's big. That's really everything when it comes down to it. The things that give you joy are still there, even when other things, big nasty things, sometimes, come along to distract you from them. But don't ignore them, or they'll fade away. Nurture the good stuff, let it be the stuff that distracts you from the rest. Bad stuff will come and bad stuff will go. But it can't force you to be unhappy unless you allow it!

So dance in the rain. Be happy anyway. Thumb your nose at the bad stuff, and turn your attention right back to the good, even if the only good you can find at the moment is jumping in a mud puddle. Dance in the rain and know that everything really is just fine. All is well. It truly is.

Maggie

Spider Solitaire

It's long been my rule that if I ever feel like I need a drink, I'm not allowed to have one. I will not become dependent. Addicted. I will not rely on a mind numbing substance to solve my probelms for me. I don't have a lot of faith that it will make best choices. However, if I simply want a drink, then, assuming it's after five o'clock and I'm done working for the day, I may help myself. To one. The Rule has changed somewhat over the years. Another caveat has been added. I don't drink alone. It's no fun. Seems too dangerous; could lead me to relying on an inanimate substance as company; could lead me to needing a drink. And sometimes, if I'm out for the evening, I might have more than one. If I'm not driving. If I'm in a safe place with people I trust. If someone is watching my back. And occasionally, when on vacation, I'll bend the five o'clock rule to apply to five o'clock somewhere in the world, not necessarily where I might currently be. Anyway, The Rule has been in effect for decades. The Rule has served me well.

Today I'm wondering if The Rule has to apply to Spider Solitaire. I NEED to play. So does that mean I can't? I shouldn't? Am I relying on the game to get me through rather than facing life head on? Am I running? Hiding? Escaping? Wasting time?

I need to play. I really need to play.

I have a book due in three weeks. It's lacking a lot of chapters. Pages don't get written if I'm not typing words in the right document. I've actually never seen a single paragraph get written while moving little virtual cards on top of other little virtual cards. Even when they become a full and complete suit and float up (or down, as the case might be) to the foundation row, flooding the player with satisfaction, words aren't written.

I need to play. I really need to play.

It's Ryan's story. He just made love with the woman of his dreams. He's sure he has to have her in his life for time and all eternity. And then she found out that he's only twenty-two. (He's a detective, a precocious boy, don't you know, and far too mature for his age.) He's about to find out that she's thirty-five. And I'm supposd to write a romance out of this.

I need to play. I really need to play.

Why do I do this to myself? Why do I always come up with these impossible to write stories? Why do I have such rigid rules in my life (oh my gosh, it's Ryan! He's too rigid! I'm rigid! I'm writing me! Except I'm older than 22. And I'm not a detective. Or a guy.) Sorry, back to the point. Why doI have such rigid rules that govern my life, but then break every rule in the romance writing text book when I sit down to pen tales?

Oh my gosh, I need to play. I really really need to play.

I hate spiders. Ladybugs, I can do. Ants...I'm good with spraying them if they're in the house. Or leaving them alone if they aren't. Silverfish and other assortments of creepy crawlies I tolerate. But spiders unhinge me. Why on earth would they call a game spider solitaire? The version I have on my phone (as opposed to the one on my desktop or the other one on my laptop) even has a spider as the opening screen. I have to look at the ugly black creepy, heebie jeebie thing every single time I play.

And still, I want to play.

Whoa! Did you see that? I WANT to play! How did that happen? Not need, but want. Today is not a day for me to look a gift horse in the mouth so I'm taking that one and heading off. Apparently it's time for a game...

Prayers, Good Thoughts, and Positive Vibes ... (Suzanne Forster)

All are needed as fire-ravaged southern Californians are faced with some of the worst firestorms this area has ever seen. As I write this, packed up and waiting for word on whether it’s safe to stay in my home with a wildfire of biblical proportions raging not twenty minutes away, I am glued to the reports on television that tell me I’m one of the lucky ones.

From Santa Barbara to San Diego, hundreds of thousands of people have been displaced, evacuated from their homes, often without being given a chance to gather up treasured pictures and mementoes. Some of these people were forced to go in their pajamas and slippers, leaving behind pets they were unable to find. Heartbreaking.

Thousands of these abandoned homes have already gone up in flames with everything in them, a lifetime of moments and memories incinerated. Historic landmarks are gone and priceless treasures turned to ash. It really is hell on earth here in socal.

I haven’t suffered their losses, but I’ve imagined them. And I do understand what it feels like to have to choose between your possessions, knowing you can only take a few things with you. How does anyone make those decisions? You have to, but it’s excruciating.

One of the dozen fires burning, the one nearest me, was started by an arsonist. I’m trying to decide what should be a fitting consequence for someone capable of so recklessly destroying our world and our lives, the things we hold most precious. I can’t quite grasp it. I really can’t. Possibly I am too enraged by the thought. Maybe I’m in shock. Right now I just hope they catch the bastard.

It is such a helpless feeling, waiting for word, watching the skies and listening for the winds. Right now it’s quiet. If it stays quiet, perhaps . . .

Meanwhile, if there are special prayers and blessings for those made homeless and helpless by fire, we need them here today.

Thank you for remembering,

Suz

Travels with Crusie and Books Part 2

Well, not actually with Crusie. Though, come to think of it, we did a lot of driving. Lani Diane Rich and I went out to Jenny Crusie's magical wonderland of a house, deep in an enchanted forest in, of all place, Ohio. By the deep flowing Ohio River, it's a strange and quirky place full of clutter and magic and beauty everywhere you turn. Oh, and dogs, of course. The divine Wolfie, the sweet Lucy, and the incomparably flatulent Bernie.
We talked Dogs and Goddesses. We talked career frustrations. We talked food and friends and craft (writing) and crafts (knitting and crocheting) and went to the Ihop three times before we burned out on pancakes, the fabulous Hobby Lobby twice, and nary a bookstore in sight. You can tell when writers are burned out on the business when we don't go to bookstores, particularly when a new book is out.
And the new book is out. It has a small print run, which is heartbreaking, but that's the way of the world. Sometimes it seems like the more beloved the book, the smaller the print run, but I am nothing if not resolute and stubborn. We call it building our backlist. Sometime, in the near or distant future, it will be republished and the world will weep at its beauty. This time around, my hopes aren't high.

Ah, but back to happier things. When we were in Ohio we bought a fireplit and dragged it home to have a ritual (I was going to write down what I can't change and set it on fire and then throw whiskey on it). Lani and Jenny had things to release as well, but we never got around to it. And now that I'm in my mother's apartment building I think I'd set off fire alarms if I tried it. So I'll just have to cowboy up for the next few days.

Cherrycon was small and intimate and wonderful, with all the fabulous cherries in full bloom. It was a week of inspiration and laughter and friendship, the sort of thing we all need in our lives to help us get through the harder times.

Have any of you had a fabulous journey with friends? Tell me about it. And if you haven't, I charge you all to grab a couple of girl friends or boy friends (someone non-sexual) and hit the road, if only for the day. Life's too short not to grab it.

Women's Voices: Mirabai

Princess. Poet. Rebel. Mystic. Saint.

Listen, my friend, this road is the heart opening,
Kissing his feet, resistance broken, tears all night.

If we could reach the Lord through immersion in water,
I would have asked to be born a fish in this life.
If we could reach Him through nothing but berries and wild nuts,
Then surely the saints would have been monkeys when they came from the womb!
If we could reach him by munching lettuce and dry leaves,
Then the goats would surely go to the Holy One before us!

If the worship of stone statues could bring us all the way,
I would have adored a granite mountain years ago.

Mirabai says: The heat of midnight tears will bring you to God.

--Born to an aristocratic family, Mirabai (c.1498-1546) dedicated herself from early childhood to God as manifested in Lord Krishna. Her chosen path was a form of mystical Hinduism called Bhakti, which disregarded caste, gender, and race to approach God through pure love. Still an iconic figure in India today, she was honored by Ghandi as a representative of a woman's right to choose her own path in life.--

Something has reached out and taken in the beams of my eyes.
There is a longing, it is for his body, for every hair of that dark body.
All I was doing was being, and the Dancing Energy came by my house.
His face looks curiously like the moon, I saw it from the side, smiling.
My family says: "Don't ever see him again!" And they imply things in a low voice.
But my eyes have their own life; they laugh at rules, and know whose they are.
I believe I can bear on my shoulders whatever you want to say of me.
Mira says: Without the energy that lifts mountains, how am I to live?

--Married in 1516 to a prince, Mira soon ran afoul of her inlaws. Declining luxury and "proper" female behavior, she associated with the community of Bhakti and became known for her erotically-charged songs.
When her tolerant husband died three years later, she refused to throw herself (as a proper widow was expected to do) onto his funeral pyre. Instead, she intensified her devotions, sometimes singing and dancing ecstatically in public temples. Her angry inlaws locked her up and, she wrote, tried to kill her with a poisoned drink and with a venomous snake.
Returning to her own family, she met with similar (if less threatening) condemnation. Finally, she became a wandering pilgrim, traveling to places associated with Lord Krishna. Famous for her songs, charisma, and shocking acts of rebellion, she always gathered a crowd of admirers. The end of her life was passed on the shores of the Arabian Sea, where she believed Krishna had spent his youth.--



The colors of the Dark One have penetrated Mira's body; all the other colors washed out.
Making love with the Dark One and eating little, those are my pearls and my carnelians.
Meditation beads and the forehead streak, those are my scarves and my rings.
That's enough feminine wiles for me. My teacher taught me this.
Approve me or disapprove me: I praise the Mountain Energy night and day.
I take the path that ecstatic human beings have taken for centuries.
I don't steal money, I don't hit anyone. What will you charge me with?
I have felt the swaying of the elephant's shoulders; and now you want me to climb on a jackass? Try to be serious.

Mirabai's poems translated by Robert Bly

More About Dogs

Disclaimer: I strained a muscle in my neck the night before last and am now on several muscle relaxers and steroids and pain medication. If I don't make sense, you've had a forwarning.

Back to the dogs.

When I turned on the television last night, there was more, of course, on Ellen and Iggy, the rescue dog passed from Ellen to her hairdresser, then seized by the rescue organization. As Maggie said, a little common sense on everyone's part would have averted this disaster.

My sympathy, though, is for the rescue organization. I've gotten my last five dogs from rescue groups (I have three now; the other two died of old age) and I have the greatest respect for people who take in four, five and up to twelve stray or abused dogs to foster while trying to find them permanent homes.

I can also tell you it's almost as difficult to adopt a rescue dog through these organizations as it is to adopt a child. They call your vet to make sure that your other animals have had all their shots, preventative care and appear to be well loved.

They inspect your home. Depending on the dog, you might be required to have a back yard. My pool was a problem until I swore on my life I would not leave them alone in the back yard before teaching my prospective Australian Shepherd sisters to swim. They want to see your dog interact with other dogs or family members. And you do sign a contract that if there is any problem, any at all, you will return the dog to the agency.

Rules are there because many people who haven't had dogs before don't quite realize the commitment they are making. The dog, as my Aussies did, may chew up the house. Maybe they're not housebroken. Maybe they have anxiety problems and howl all night. A lot of people just dump the dog, or pass him along again.

The rescue group asked the hairdresser to come in and make an application. It's not just whether the daughters love the dog, it's whether this family will fulfill a ten or twelve year obligation. If they can't be bothered to go through the application process, why should the agency believe they will be responsible owners.

Someone -- not on this blog but elsewhere -- mentioned that the agency just wanted another fee. The fees usually don't begin to cover the cost of adopting out an animal. Usually there are vet fees, shots, and the cost of food over weeks and sometimes months. Most of the members of these rescue groups pay these costs out of their own pocket or scanty contributions. Nor does the fee cover the time spent in investigating a prospective home.

Threats certainly didn't help the situation. As Maggie said, an apologetic phone call would have gone a long, long way.

Meanwhile, people who devote their lives rescuing animals and trying to find good, permanent homes for them are being pilloried because a famous client couldn't be bothered to read a contract. I'm sure, too, she received the information orally as well. I sure did.

Sometimes rules are made for good reasons. I hate it that these rescue people receive hate mail and accumulate lawyer fees because yet another spoiled celebrity doesn't believe contracts and rules should apply to her. I'm sending a contribution today.

Going Nowhere Fast (LynnK)

That's me back when, the Uneasy Rider, on a long-suffering horse at a hacienda in Ecuador. The fact that I can bear to look at it, not to mention let anyone else see it, is proof positive of my malady.

The Travel Bug has bit me again. It’s bad. Maybe terminal. I dream trips. Imagine roamings. Hunger for exploring a new place or revisiting one of the many that inspired me to say, when there, “I shall return.”

It’s genetic, I think, this longing for distant roads and unfamiliar scenes. Like most Americans, I’m descended from immigrants who pulled up roots and risked (most of them) everything they had to make a new life in a new place. My father’s parents (who had not met at the time) were late arrivals, coming through Ellis Island nearly a century ago. But my mother’s ancestors, rooted in England since the tenth century, started arriving here in the 1600s.

She and Dad met in a small rural town in the South, where their families had put down roots. And almost immediately after the wedding, they hightailed it outa there. Not because Henry County, Tennessee, was an undesirable place to live. It’s a beautiful area, and nearly all their many brothers and sisters settled within a hundred miles of where they grew up. But they both had itchy feet and a desire to see the world.

Dad joined the Navy, and off they went to exotic locations like, well, Albuquerque. That traditional Navy town! But before New Mexico, we spent time in Panama, where my sister was born, and Asmara, Eritrea. Exotic, yes, but by no means glamorous. That didn’t matter. My father loved, loved the Navy. Mom loved, loved the travel. My little sister and I, infused with the love of new experiences, adapted and thrived.

Dad died, too early, from lung cancer (“Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em”), tended to in his long illness by his wife. And then, free of her adult children and responsibilities, she could at last indulge her yen for the great unknown. All she lacked was money.

And so, despite hands and body crippled from infancy by painful arthritis, Mom created a career for herself. Slowly but surely, she became a well-known bridge teacher, and when the cruising industry got underway in the 70's, they snapped her up. From then until her last illness, she spent much of the year afloat, living her dream. She saw the world, and loved it, and never lost her curiosity or her fascination with everything she experienced. People timed their vacations to join her on the cruises. Enthusiasm is contagious.

Also, apparently, inheritable. I am my mother’s daughter. Was a time when I, too, abandoned a stable profession for an unprofitable career that offered as a side benefit the one thing I could not live without. Back then, the travel profession was rich with discounted opportunities for its underpaid workers. But when that ended, I tried something else. Writing.

The craving for adventure, though, has only developed longer, sharper teeth. In spite of living exactly where I want to be for most of the time, I cannot wait for the next chance to leave it for a trip to somewhere else. And because that is presently impossible, I’m a wreck.

My last non-job-related trip was way back in 2001, when Alicia Rasley and I went to Ireland for a Gathering of Dorothy Dunnett fans and followed up with London, the Cotswolds, Wells, Cheddar, and Dartmoor. We climbed a tor to celebrate the end of my cancer treatment and the fact I could manage to stagger up a hill. At the time, it was an achievement.

That seems a lifetime ago. I’m past due for a fix. Exploration has always been my drug of necessity, and the travel companies know it. I’m constantly trolling their websites. They must scent desperation, because they deluge me with catalogs. Glorious, full-color displays of splendid tours and destinations arrive nearly every week. I press my nose against the virtual glass and quiver with longing.

I'm also a devoted reader of fellow writer-and-traveler Barbara Samuel’s excellent blog, A Writer Afoot (http://awriterafoot.typepad.com/), which I enjoy while seething with envy.

Some of my friends believe that by opening themselves to abundance, it will surely come if they throw up no obstacles in its way. Hey, I’m there! Healthy. Energetic. Chomping at the bit. Yesterday I got my hair whacked off into the Travel Cut: wash ‘n’ wear, blow ‘n’ go. Abundance, I'm your gal. Lavish me.

Today I went to the grocery story, the pet store, and Target, where I failed to find an acceptable space heater for my apartment. Bought gas and put air in the tires. Whoopee.

Not sure, actually, if Worthiness is a factor in the abundance theory. (Note to self: Read more about this.) If it is, I’m pretty much dead in the water.

Doggie Tales & Ellen (Maggie)

Since my new side job as an advice columnist is going so well, I decided to bring it here today. I'm doing pretty well at implementing all I've learned in my own life. Had another gloriously wonderful weekend, and then an extremely challenging week, but aside from a very brief meltdown last night, I'm staying positive and balanced and pointed downstream. (Last night was bad, but I'm only human, and I had a lot hit me this week. Stuff I created and put into my escrow long ago, no doubt, and stuff that's going to end up benefiting me in the long run, I'm sure. So brief meltdown, quick bounceback, done.)

Anyway, back to the advice thing. Sometimes just talking about the principals of staying positive and pointing downstream and creating our reality, isn't a very clear way of sharing the message. Sometimes, specific examples work best. And there's a perfect one in the news this week.

Ellen Degeneres adopted a dog from a private agency. She signed a contract promising not to give the dog away. This agency screens clients carefully and approves only those they are sure will provide their dogs with a good home. If it doesn't work out, the client is supposed to return to the dog to the agency, and allow them to find another acceptable home. Ellen signed this agreement and took the dog home.

Two weeks later, the dog was apparently not getting along with her cats, so Ellen gave the dog away to what I'm sure was a wonderful family--Ellen's hairstylist and her two daughters. And they adored the dog.

But then the agency found out, and because the contract had been broken, they took the dog from the hairstylist and her two girls, who were understandably heartbroken at the dog's loss.

Heartbroken girls, a disappointed friend, and the next thing you know Ellen's on TV sobbing her heart out and begging the agency to give the dog back, while her publicist is on the phone threatening to sue the agency and ruin their business. And the agency's lawyer is on the Today Show accusing Ellen of crocodile tears and throwing her weight around. Things have become ugly. The owner of the dog adoption agency has received death threats. This is way out of hand.

So how would a person who understands the Law of Attraction have handled this same situation?

First of all, they probably wouldn't have manifested it in the first place. They'd have attracted to themselves the perfect pet for their home situation instead, if that were their deliberate intent. However, let's say they did. Let's say they manifested this dog in their lives, and this agency, and they adopted the dog, and their cats hated it, but their dear friend and her two daughters loved it? How would they have handled the situation?

The simplest way would have been to dig out the contract and take a quick look, then make a phone call to the agency, and have a friendly, loving discussion with them, explaining that the dog and cats didn't get along, but that you had a wonderful family interested, and asking what the process would be from there.

Simple. No broken-hearted girls. No tears on TV. No lawsuits. No death threats.

But let's say you messed up, let your heart rule your head, didn't realize what was in the contract or had forgotten, or whatever, and you gave the dog away. And the situation escalated to the point where the dog was removed from its new home, and the girls were crying over it. How do you keep it from escalating from that point?

Simple. Another friendly phone call. You apologize, because you were in the wrong, and explain how you came to ignore or forget that contract, and you tell them you're sure this family would qualify to own the dog, and you ask if you could bring them in to go through the process as outlined in the terms of the agreement, as you admit, you should have done in the first place.

What you do not do is make what is a personal disagreement between you and this agency into a national media event by going on TV and crying. Because by giving the negative side of all of this, so much attention, (and now you've got the whole country giving it attention) you are magnifying that negativity out of all proportion, and you better believe, you're going to manifest some big bad result from that. Negative focus attracts negative manifestation.

And really, this has been blown out of all proportion. Ellen had the dog two weeks, and while I'm sure she was fond of it, the tv sobbing was over the top. Moreover, the hairstylist and her daughters (who look to be adolescents or even young teens, not three-year-olds, after all) only had it for two weeks themselves. Yet the emotional explosions resulting from the dog's removal, bring to mind the sobbing parents of Baby M in the news long ago. You remember that? A couple had adopted this little girl and had her for 18 months, when the birth mother sued to get her back, and won. I remember the heartbreaking news coverage of the day the baby was handed over. (King Solomon would have had something to say about that case. But I think even he would roll his eyes over this doggie debacle. It's just not worthy of all the time, attention, and negativity it's brought.)

But it can be used as an opportunity for learning, for teaching, for discussion. When we get into a disagreement with someone, before we get mad, and defensive, and teary eyed, and begin publicly disparaging and privately threatening them, let's try this much simpler method. Talk to them, smile, be friendly, ask questions, apologize if we made a mistake, offer to rectify it. Most people respond far better to this type of approach, then they do to an all out attack.

Wouldn't you?

If either party were to ask my advice now, I'd first tell them how badly they messed up to begin with, and then I'd suggest, they let it go. It's too late to take the dog back. It has already been placed with another family, and why add to the drama by breaking another bunch of kids' hearts, removing the dog again, getting another family up-in-arms? I'd tell them to let it go, let it go, let it go. No lawsuits, no further discussion on tv unless it's to apologize to one another, but only if it's heartfelt and sincere, and not a PR move. If they really wanted to mend things, I'd have the agency match the hairstylist and her girls up with another pet, have the stylist give the agency owner a free new hair-do, and suggest Ellen make a hefty donation to the agency or give them free ad space during her show for the next few months. Maybe that would help. But short of all that, it would be good enough to just let it all go and move on. Release those oars, stop fighting the current, flow downstream. Ahhhh, so much easier.

Does anyone have other situations where things got way out of hand unnecessarily? Other things they think could have been handled so much more easily than they were? Other ideas about how this particular case was handled so far? Or things you wish you had handled differently in the past, given the clarity of hindsight? Post away, this could be a great discussion!

Maggie

A Mother's Journey

Today I am missing my daughter like crazy. Every day I miss her like crazy, but today, it's worse. There's no particular reason. There's no holiday. No birthday. Nothing particular about October 17th in our lives. I just miss her.

You know, we go through nine months of discomfort - mixed in with a heady sense of wonder and anticipation - incredible joy and debilitating fears - and then another however many hours of a pain so excruciating you swear you're never ever going to forget how horrible it felt. And then you do. And we produce lives.

Lying there in the hospital bed, feeling so gross and sweaty and sore you know you'll never ever be yourself again, you look into the eyes of that little being and realize that you're right. As of that moment, you never ever are going to be yourself again. Not the self you knew before you checked into that hospital. You've become something entirely different. A mother.

Seems like one should fight that a little bit, maybe be a little resentful that you've just lost you and you didn't see it coming, and yet, I embraced that new woman, without looking back. Even for a second. I held that new being, cared for her, embraced the changes she brought with a heart that was full and thankful. And I do not regret doing so. At all. Period.

For years I put aside my needs - even biological ones a time or two! - to serve her every need. I made mistakes. Lord knows, I'm not a perfect person by any means. I yelled sometimes. And I demanded. But, boy did I love. With every single piece of my mother's heart, I loved that child.

I watched her grow. Watched her change. Watched, sometimes painfully, sometimes ingraciously, as she slowly started taking the decision making for her life out of my hands and into her own. And when she moved into her own apartment, I packed for her. And unpacked for her. I ran the show. And afterward, as soon as I was alone, I cried until I thought I wouldn't stop. It happened that way for weeks.

She's all grown up now. One ofArizona's newest prosecuting attorneys. She has a decent salary and her own benefits. Great benefits. Health insurance, more than four weeks of vacation if you include paid holidays, retirement. I'm so proud of her. Comforted by her success. She's a good, decent, loving person who has her whole life ahead of her.

And I've got my life, too. That person that left in that hospital room so many years before has resurfaced. She's married to a man who, while not perfect by any means, is perfect for her. She's honestly and truly in love - the stuff she writes about. She's learning how to roof, and frame and plumb. She mows the lawn with a riding mower and her four pound princess on her lap. She checked her oil and bought some. She filled her windshield washer fluid. She's adored and pampered in all the right places.

She's got a career that she loves. She just filmed a documentary with NBC - that went very well, thank you, in spite of the near miss of an outside shoot. (Said husband quickly came up with a space heater and a very long extension cord that allowed said heater to hide underneath the wicker sofa upon which she sat. Did I mention she's pampered in all the right places?) Booksignings are successful like never before (also thanks to that husband who stands at the door and hands out bookmarks and invites people to meet the author). She's got two more interviews tomorrow and will be in Memphis and Phoenix and Michigan for signings over the next weeks.

She...me...Life is good. Thankfully, honestly good. I don't like Ohio, never have in spite of the fact that I grew up here, but I love my home. It is a home. And it fits us. It's quaint and different - just like the two of us. I'm living authentically. I'm really living. I have my ups and downs - I've come to realize I always will. I'm intense. Stuff happens. But I love my intensity. It allows me to feel things so completely. To write the books that I write.

I love that I don't have to pretend, even to myself, anymore. I love that I can get down and find nothing sacred and reach out and get lists of things that are and I love even more that I can read the lists and nod my head and see the truth in them. Feel the truth in them. And be up and running and believing once again.

I love life.

And I miss my daughter. She's raised, but the life is never done. That woman that was born that day in the hospital all those years ago - that mother - she's never going away.

Read Any Good Books Lately?

So I've been reading recently, and I thought you'd like some recommendations. Not that any of these are new to you -- I'm assuming they're all over the best-seller lists but I'd thought I'd give you Sister Krissie's unbiased opinions.
First there's the Lisa Kleypas, MINE TILL MIDNIGHT. I'm only halfway through (the plane landed) but it's just luscious. I've had the mad hots for Cam Rohan since he first appeared in an earlier book, and here he is in all his glory. Yum!!!

Then there's JR Ward. I forgive her for being beautiful. I forgive her for giving her characters such silly names. Her books are over the top, ridiculous, messy, juicy and wonderful. LOVER UNBOUND is extremely kinky, twisted, and man, does it work. I did skip most of the flashbacks, but oh my stars and garters! Definitely not for the fainthearted, or someone looking for trouble, but a wild ride that's just delicious.

And then there's Elizabeth Hoyt, next on my list of TBRs. I read the first two (THE LEOPARD PRINCE and THE RAVEN PRINCE) and I enjoyed them tremendously. The class issues make for very different reading, and I'm really looking forward to the newest.

I've got other goodies as well -- the latest Stephanie Meyer, Lani Diane Rich's books, and JANES'S WARLORD by Angela Knight (strongly recommended to me when I was in New Zealand). All in all, good stuff to curl up with during the nippy fall weather, with a cup of apple cinnamon herb tea and donuts (I never said I was healthy).

Actually I read for the same reason I eat. Not for improvement in mind or body, not for intellectual or physical sustenance. I do both for pleasure, lascivious creature that I am.

So, here's the question for the day. What new and wonderful books have you been reading? And what's your favorite comfort food to have while you read?

The Unsung Hero and Heroine (Patricia Potter)

Tara’s post this week has lingered in my mind. I have looked conscientiously in my paper (The Memphis Commercial Appeal) and the internet for good news. For news about heroes (both genders) as well as villains.

In the past three days, I found only one, and I mentioned it in reply to her post. A door to door salesman stopped at a home where the owner said he couldn’t afford to buy anything because he needed a kidney transplant and was financially strapped.

During the conversation, they discovered they shared the same blood type. The encounter stayed in the salesman’s mind, and he offered to donate one of his healthy kidneys.

I’ve heard other stories, similar only in the fact that someone donated a kidney to help someone else. Sometimes it’s a teacher who gives a kidney to a student, or a friend helping another friend, but many are people helping strangers.

But the salesman was the only "good" story I found in the paper for three days, though there was plenty of bad news, and bad to very bad behavior reported. It seems we no longer expect good behavior from our athletic figures, our entertainers, our politicians.

So I decided to turn to personal heroes, the unsung men and women who really make a difference. I think we become so inured to bad behavior and worse that we don't see the every day hero/heroine. The quiet ones who daily make a difference in lives. One of mine is a nurse at my mom’s nursing home. I named the heroine in my March book after her and dedicated the book to her as well as a local paramedic who risks her life repeatedly to save others. Both are ordinary women who chose professions that pay little but give so much to the people they serve.

Kirke, the nurse, is so patient with my mother, so kind when Mom gets confused or becomes impatient because no one can understand her pain. It goes far beyond the scope of the job. It’s personal. She cares. And Mom knows it. It makes a huge difference to her. And to me.

She’s not alone. Not in the nursing home. Not in a hospital. Not in the hospice programs throughout the country. Not in schools So many of these people put in so many more hours than required, go that extra mile to help a child read, or an elderly person more comfortable and less confused or save a heart attack victim with emergency care.

Because newspapers are NOT doing their jobs in reporting the good as well as the bad, I thought I would throw out a challenge. Who’s your personal unsung hero or heroine?

A Magickal Weekend (Maggie)

First things first: MOON FEVER was #32 on the Times Extended list for the week ending 9/29, and will be at #35 for the coming week. YAY! I love when life gives me even more things to celebrate!

Now, on to the fun stuff. I spent the most amazing, most magickal (and the spelling is deliberate) weekend! It was with a group of fellow Wiccans, all members of local groups. We've made our fall camping weekend an annual event, and this year we found the perfect place for it. Camp Tuscarora in Windsor NY. It's usually a boy scout camp, but no one was using it and we were able to book it. We actually had cabins with flushing toilets and hot showers, fridges, stoves, a microwave, and toaster! Wow! Compared to our usual primitive (tents, an outhouse, and a cold water spigot) camping, this was like a five-star hotel!

Not only was it convenient, it was beautiful. This time of year, with the leaves changing--oh, man, it took my breath away.

It was utterly peaceful and quiet there, so relaxing to sit around the bonfire with good friends. A wonderful break from the real world. And the workshops were fantastic. We had one session on scrying (the art of staring at an object until you have a vision.) Often this is done with a black mirror, a crystal ball, a silver bowl of water, the flames of a fire or candle, etc. I have a crystal ball and two black mirrors, and I had determined that mine must be broken, as I've never had any success. However, our brilliant instructor told us how it took her a year of really persistant, patient practice before she had her first vision, and then it was another six months before she had another. Me? Oh, I tried it a handful of times and gave up. So I came home with a renewed determination and a much clearer understanding of how scrying works, and I intend to try again. Just a few minutes each night in quiet meditation, focusing on the crystal and not demanding or pushing for anything. Eventually, maybe I'll get a vision. If not, at least I've got a solid meditation practice going, and that's nothing to sneeze at. Regular meditation has been shown to improve both mental and physical health, reduce blood pressure, lower stress, and all kinds of good things like that.

Another great workshop was one where actually wove our own cornucopia baskets from reeds. I didn't think I'd be very successful at this, as I'm not "crafty." (Well, "WITCH-crafty, yeah, but not CRAFT-crafty.) ;) At any rate, the instructions were so good and patient and thorough that I wound up succeeding! I was thrilled.

The cornucopia, or horn of plenty, is of very Pagan origins, and represents the bounty we can harvest in our lives if we only let it in, and also our gratitude for that bounty. Mine is sitting on my kitchen table. I came home with a new vision of myself. I can do crafts if I want to. HA! Took me long enough to figure that out.

We also had workshops on the Law of Attraction (which I presented with help from dear friends) and on abundance and bounty, where I learned all that cornucopia history.

But the highlight of the weekend was a group ritual in which healing and belly dance played major roles. I love belly dance, and I was in "sore" need of healing, so this was perfect for me. I was placed on a cot, and draped in sheer veils as the dancers moved around me, raising energy. My injured butt muscle tingled, and then it burned, and later I felt a distinct "POP." Afterward, I joined the belly dancers, and it didn't hurt. And it hasn't hurt since. I haven't gone running again yet, but I might try just a very gentle short jog next week. I have done several workouts, quite carefully, and some of them were heavy on the squats and lunges, but I've had no ill results. I think the healing took!

I was in charge of providing the cake, and this is the one I came up with. Nice, huh?

Ah, yes. I love the fall. I love my friends. I came home to find my dogs were happy and healthy and well cared for, and Sally didn't get sick from stress. She's got one more weekend there, so it's a good thing. But I'm betting the problem is over and she's used to it there and will be fine.

Once again, I've got tons and tons to be grateful for. I start each day by thanking the universe for all the great things in my life, and the list just keeps getting longer and longer.
Oh, and here's one more. Twilight Phantasies, my very first vampire novel, has just been released in Germany! Twilight Memories follows there in May. If you read German, you can see my interview at www.loveletter-magazin.blogspot.com

Life is good. Make the most of it!

Maggie

Sacred Things

I'm filming an NBC documentary tomorrow. The shoot is scheduled to take three hours. It's here in my new home. There's been a lot of talking and coaching back and forth between my publicist and publisher and I regarding the logistics of what we're doing. And regarding the care and feeding of my safety as I step forward to speak up about something that has taken up a huge part of my life over the past two years - white supremacy. I used to be blissfully ignorant, thinking that the KKK was ancient history, something that only existed in classrooms and on All in The Family re-runs. I thought we'd progressed into a society of sacred beglonging, of understanding, especially after 9/11, that we must be accepting of our brother and sister Americans, that we must stand together. After all, everyone knows that divided we fall, right?

And then I was sitting in a courtroom, waiting to watch the outcome of a case I'd been researching for the current work in progress, and I saw something else. Something horrifying. And compelling. A man named Josh Fiedler was on the end of the chain. Josh was the leader of one of the largest white supremacy organizations in Arizona. He was there for a motion regarding his current charges. Seeing that young man, hearing his confidence in light of the charges, changed me forever. And The Ivory Nation Trilogy was born. I spent the next two years researching everything I could find on white supremacy and I found far too much. I'm still embroiled in it all as, this month, the second book in the trilogy, Behind Closed Doors is out, and I'm currently writing the third, At Close Range.

More than shocked me, or frightened me, the knowledge I've gained has done something far worse. It's put such doubts in my brain, and my heart. Made me a cynic in ways I'd never thought possible. Where I used to be certain that certain things were sacred, I now wonder if anything is. There appears to be nothing that some people won't do. If these were just common criminals, people who were led astray at some young age, warped before they could protect themselves, then, okay, I've got an explanation. But they aren't all like that. They're successful business people, church going people, who honestly believe that they are serving their god by keeping his world pure. They're sincere and would give their own lives to protect god's world. Don't get me wrong. Some are just plain mean, ugly, lost souls. Some are just skinhead gang members. But the cause doesn't live and breathe and continue to grow at alarming rates run solely by gangs. Think about that.

So then I got to thinking. What is sacred? Love? Find a divorced couple. Find some of the letters they wrote to each other when they were first together. Read about the undying forever love that they've never felt before and, they swear, never will again. Take a child who is not speaking to a parent. Read the letters of love that came before. The cards that tell how much the child believes in the parent. And yet, how sacred is that love? A spouse messes up, something happens, the love they felt they can no longer feel. A parent displeases a child and the believing is no longer there. Or is it there? Just buried beneath immediate life issues, surface things that get in the way and hide what really matters deep beneath its masses?

What about the preacher who has an affair with a parishioner? Or the judge who goes into someone's personal computer and reads and prints off private e-mails? Or the cop who shoots six people in a jealous rage while off duty? Six friends. People he went to high school with.

This week in Dayton a mother was charged with child endangerment because she left her little two year old boy alone. He'd been found wandering the streets by himself during morning rush hour, had almost stepped out in traffic, when a woman noticed him and saved his life. And last month a ten-year-old boy, in a fit of rage, set fire to his house, killing his mother and half sister and three other children under the age of ten.

And in Phoenix this week, they're talking about the worst case of child abuse they've ever seen. A five year old girl with 100 separate and countable injuries. Her father is in the military and claimes that he didn't know he couldn't use a strap to discipline her as he raised her in a basic training atmosphere that would make most new recruits cringe.

Maybe it's just the news. Maybe they don't tell enough about the good stuff. Maybe I've seen too much of the other side of life. Maybe I'm just tired and one too many sleepless nights are getting the better of me.

But I really want to know. Is anything sacred anymore??? Please, give me a list. I'll consume it. Gladly.

Death From Overwork (Suzanne Forster)

The Japanese call it karoshi, which literally means death from overwork. I call it a book deadline. I’m still deep in the throes of mine and will be for a couple more weeks, at least. What seems to keep me alive and reasonably well, despite the killer schedule, are some tips for reducing stress that actually work.

The first one is laughter, and I went straight to the experts to back up the claims that laughter really is the best medicine. What follows is an excerpt from a truly inspiring article on the benefits of laughter by Mike Adams. I’ve also included a link so you can check out the rest of the article. Plus, I found a goofy cartoon to get you started on your chuckles for today. Maybe only a writer could love it, but I just had to share.

"LAUGHTER IS GOOD MEDICINE FOR REDUCING STRESS AND ENHANCING BRAIN CHEMISTRY, by Mike Adams.

How do you actually reduce the levels of chronic stress in your body and enhance your lifespan, boost immune system function, protect your nervous system and your sanity, and give your endocrine system a much-needed rest? Fortunately there are several easy ways to do this. Let's start with the easiest one: laughter.

Laughter is a healing activity. You may have seen the movie called "Patch Adams," which is a movie about a real life doctor who still practices today and uses laughter as healing. He's quite correct in using laughter as a healing therapy, because it is one of the most healing activities in which you can engage."

That’s just a quick look. Here’s the link if you’d like to check out the rest of Mike’s article. I’d do it if I were you. He actually makes the astounding claim that every minute of laughter produces $10,000 worth of healthy body chemistry. And then he proves it!

http://www.newstarget.com/z007551.html

And here’s the cartoon I promised.

Oops, nope, guess not. Somehow it's showing up at the top of the post, and I have no clue how to get it down here here it belongs. Sorry. I hope that doesn't make it any less funny.

Wishing you smiles and laughter all day long,

Suz

Crossing the Finish LIne

It's done! Finished, revised, e-mailed off to a friendly reader, my editor and my agent, and now all I have to do is worry. Is it brilliant? I'm too close to tell. This is always the worst time -- when you have to let go of something you've been working on for months and months, and you're so close to it you can't tell if it's crap or fabulous. Part of the problem is familiarity -- even the most brilliant opening in the world will start to be boring once you've read and revised it three hundred times. It gets so familiar that you don't know if it's dragging because you've read it too many times or if it's dragging because the pacing is off. I think now is the time most writers either need to throw themselves into something completely new, or lie down for a long time.
Me, I'm working. Got a Christmas novella that's going to be blast, and then next week I spend the week with Jenny Crusie and Lani Diane Rich to work on Dogs and Goddesses. And I can officially quilt again (I had to cut myself off while I was on deadline).
And it's autumn, where Vermont is officially the Most Beautiful Place in the World. The photos don't lie -- it's glorious. Even when it's cloudy or rainy the brightness of the trees light the world, and any world that possesses such beauty can't be all bad.

Any of you ever been in Vermont in the autumn? Don't you think it's impossibly beautiful?

Sunday Cat Blogging (Lymond de Sevigny)

Crabby mood today. Lynn fed me regular Fancy Feast. Hmph! Clearly I am a "premium" cat.



Oh, woe is me.
Sulking in my tent.